we're fated to pretend

I was driving down the road awhile back when I had to stop at a red light. There was a packed car beside me, the average passenger the age of 17. They were me, essentially, or a version of me that happened 8 or so years ago.

It took me back... 20 feet and years from where they sat, I was in that tacobell drive thru, playing 'TOUCHDOWN!' with my friends. For those of you who weren't as lame as us, 'TOUCHDOWN!' was this entirely wasteful game in which we dropped one of our friends off as we pulled into the drive thru, and had them lurk about as we made our order. We then parked just far enough away from the window and pretended not to hear as the worker said, "Ma'am, your order..." holding it out for us to grab.

In an ideal circumstance, our lurking friend would run between the car and the fry cook's outstretched arms, snatching the food and spiking it on the ground just in front of the car, yelling "Touchdown!" as she did so.

What we didn't account for in this particular instance was the fact that the Taco Bell guy was grasping the handle of the bag, and when A Big Ash went galloping through, he held on tight, clothes-lining her in the process. She lay on the ground, between the car and the building, as he shoved the bag through the window. "Here's your food." He was not amused.

But we were.

Remembering this, I smiled, still at the stoplight. A noise jarred me, snatching away my good ol' memories. The car of teenagers was still beside me, though they were not content to wade through the past like I was. No... no, they were hanging out of the car, barking. At me. At other cars. At pedestrians. Pretty much at anyone and anything. I shook my head. Once upon a time, I was right there with them.

I was watching TV yesterday, tuning into a particularly dramatized version of the high school experience. I scoffed. This is so dramatic, I thought. This would never happen!, I cried. This is sooo unrealistic, I... surmised? I don't know... Actually, I probably stuttered or something, I've been doing that a lot lately :/

But I digress. High school rocked. It was even the topic of one my Creative Writing 205 (or whatever the fuck) discussions in college. The professor questioned the class, "Who of you all liked high school?"

Two, out of 36, raised their hands. One was this boy named Luke, who was super cute, by the way. The other was me. I put my hand down as quick as it had gone up, watching in silence as a girl (who looked like she hated high school... you know the type...) rolled her eyes at Luke, "Well of course you liked high school," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" he asked. But he knew. He loved high school. He was one of those... and, evidently, so was I.

For me, it was magical. People weren't singing in the hallways, exactly, but there was joy. There was friendship, and love, and good times had by all. Our teams always won and our tests were challenging, yet passable. Sometimes instead of giving out homework, they gave out candy and money. The teachers were fair and people were honest, and kind. I had great friends and while we weren't the coolest, we had fun. Kamiakin was the best school in the whole, big, wide world... ever. I loved it so much that I stayed after school, and got there early... anything to be on campus with my bess frans! High school was, in a word, AWESOME.

Every once in a while I just flip through my yearbooks and stew in its sheer awesome-ness. And then, suddenly, as if I'm being thrown into a brick wall, I remember that one time I was at a friends house and got cornered by two really awful girls. And I remember how they threw a Pepsi at me and told me they were going to kick my ass for calling one of them a bitch- something that for the record, to this day, 10 years later, I swear I didn't say. Though, I have said it since.

I'll say it again, now, if you'd like.

YOU FUCKING BITCH.

Ugh. Anyway. I didn't have my license yet, and I was afraid they'd follow me home and throw shit at me if I ran away, so I started crying and hurried inside. I called my dad and asked him to come get me, even though he had just dropped me off 30 minutes before. He asked, "Are you okay?" and I didn't answer. He said, "Liz?" to which I replied, "Mmm hmm," because I didn't want her parents to hear me practically gurgling with choked back tears. Five minutes later, I was in his car, rolling up the window as the girls yelled, "BITCH!" at our bumper.

That particular memory was not so nice... and once I think about it, everything else comes screaming back to me... Maybe... could it be? Was my high school experience less than the fucking parade-of-joy-and-jubilation that I make it out to be?

You be the judge. Here are some other memories, enjoy:

-There was the time freshman year that no one invited me to the party after the basketball game on Valentine's Day and I dubbed it the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre" in my diary. (The fact that I wrote about it in my diary and gave it such a name makes it less sad and more COMPLETELY pathetic, btw...)

-The time Mr. Clark saw my mom at Costco and told her that not only had I failed to turn in my last few assignments, but that I hadn't bothered coming to class at all, lately. I got grounded for that one. Natch.

-The two separate occasions in which I was mocked, loudly, during a (nerve-wracking, pulse quickening, I-can't-believe-I-have-to-speak-in-front-of-everyone) presentation. The first time was sophomore year when in Marketing I was negotiating a higher salary for Reese Witherspoon and played a clip of Legally Blonde. Evidently the 17 year old boys in my class thought that I seemed like the type of girl who could take a good ribbing from those with whom she was infatuated with... I got so embarrassed that I cut off the clip halfway through and mumbled the remainder of Reese's contractual demands while sliding into my seat as quickly as possible, head down... heart heavy :(  The second time was when I was giving a speech about racism... which I guess is super hilarious and worthy of contempt and derision from asshole white kids named Ian and Steve.

-The time I got hit in the face with a dodgeball. I was already out. Sitting on the sideline. Fucking sniper mission, it was... Meanwhile, setting up bowling pins and calling it 'Pinball' doesn't make it a different enough game to interchange it with actual dodgeball in an effort to create athletic diversity, Mr. Rose.

-The time Jevon hacked into my AIM and told everyone who I liked- which wouldn't have been the end of the world but he IMed some of the popular kids, and while they were on my buddy list, I sure as hell didn't actually talk to them. Ever.

-The time Chance told me, "Wow, you're really cool, Liz. I don't know why nobody likes you."

-The time I got thrown in the pool. On my birthday. In my clothes.

-The time I got accused of plagiarism in my freshman English class because my teacher thought I was too stupid to write coherently.


I'm sure there are many, many more, but without actually digging out my leopard print diary (oh, Christ All-Mighty...) I am unable to recall them all. High school must have been one of those experiences that in some parts was so traumatic that my brain did this cool thing where it made me forget how shitty it was, instead amplifying the fun days in which we tee'd off in the amphitheater on Preppy Thursdays. Or when I wrote the script for an assembly that turned out kinda cool. Or the time I got asked to Homecoming with a banner at halftime (by Jevon, which almost makes up for that dick move with the AIM).

A few of us went to a Kamiakin/Kennewick football game last fall, and after I got over the shock of seeing the boys I used to babysit for all grown up and in-high-school-now or whatever, I was thrown by the insane amount of raw emotion that was flying about the stadium.

Girls were crying. Boys were acting indifferent. Girls were yelling. Boys were swearing. Girls were scheming. Boys were standing near the back of the concessions staring really creepily at girls they didn't have the balls to talk to... Girls were pretending they didn't notice the boys doing this all the while whispering about it to their friends as they waited on their Skittles.

Stupid little relationships were coming into fruition and falling apart all around me, and these kids were really into it. They had more passion and enthusiasm for their meaningless, Friday night, "let's go to the football game but not actually watch the football game" assholery than I do for any given day of my life. Or week. Hell, maybe even month.

This is not to say that I think my life is bad. On the contrary, I don't mind my life a whole hell of a lot. On some days it's pretty damn good. I'm just saying that high school... ah, high school. High school was, and is, a complete clusterfuck of bad and good and idiocy and arrogance overlaid with some really great times that tend to make you forget the shitty ones.

And I did it.

And it's over for me.

And I'm so, so glad about that.

who's LE? (i'm real)

There is a certain lack of sincerity in the world today. I contribute to that, mostly because everything I say/write/think is laced with some smidgen of disdain. I'd bet it's some coping mechanism I've developed, or a trait that I've picked up through osmosis and complete immersion. It's a societal thing, I think. We, as a people, are losing our ability to be real.

It's apparent on TV, and in print, and really, super, glaringly obvious on Twitter. Seriously guys, people on there are so fucking mean... but it's funny. So it's okay, then. I guess.

At least, it's supposed to be.

Why do I try to be funny? Two reasons, mostly. One, to get people to like me. Two, to distract them from areas in which I am lacking.

I don't know that I set out to be this way. In fifth grade, I was in this thing called OM. I've mentioned OM before, and I will not rehash the specifics now, because it's super weird... meanwhile it should be said that I loved every, single moment. Um, anyway... we had a little skit that we performed in front of the school, and then after the skit we spoke to the audience and tried to get them to give us money. Looking back, I don't know that it was the best decision. 98% of our audience was children, K-5, also known as- kind of poor... but this glaring miscalculation didn't set us back too far. We made it to Florida. And lost.

During the makeshift telethon, we had a strict script to follow, and my line was, "We're going to Florida, and we need a lot of money." As soon as I said it, everyone laughed. It caught me off guard, as I was serious... we needed a shit ton of money to get our asses to Florida so that we could compete for the balsa wood structure championship/meet Chip and Dale. But there they were, laughing, and not handing over a single dime.

As we exited the stage, I pulled Bonnie aside. "Why did they laugh at me?" I asked.

"I don't know," she shrugged, "just how you said it. It was funny."

One of my favorite movies is Singing in the Rain. In it, is a rendition of the song, Make 'Em Laugh. It's not an ambiguous title, it's a song about making people laugh. I fully appreciate the value of the message in this song. Yes, let's make them laugh, because laughing is awesome. I figured that out in fifth grade (slow learner), and have been working hard to exploit it ever since.

I say the most random shit. My mind correlates in ways that are spectacular and scary all at the same time. I treat life like a multi-camera sitcom stage and I'm always waiting for the canned laughter from the audience. I've even gotten pretty good at keeping a straight face when I think I've just made the WITTIEST COMMENT OF ALL TIME.

But sometimes I'm not funny. Sometimes I go too far, or get repetitive, and a lot of time I'm just ridiculously lame. Though, lately, I'm just mean. I hide bitchiness and contempt under the guise of humor. And it's not funny anymore. I know it, everyone knows it, and... I'm so sick of it.

In truth, for me, it's been a tough few months. The minutes and days are wearing on me a bit more than I'd like to admit. Ergo, I miss my friends. They're a fantastic distraction.

All growing up... well, wait. I didn't really have friends other than relatives until I was 8. So, from third grade on, I've relied on my friends when I'm feeling kind of down. I was that girl who took too many damn pictures through out high school, and who looks at them from time to time, thinking "ah, man, we really did have fun, didn't we?" We did, indeed.

I like to think I have lots of friends. Hundreds (okay, not hundreds. I don't even have 100 Facebook friends...). But I have like, ten, at least. Ten really good ones. They know who they are- one's already been mentioned in this here blog entry. My friends... oh, they're so much better than yours. I'm sorry. It's the truth. I may be biased, but, hell, this is my blog I can say whatever I want. And if you're reading it you probably are one of my friends so take it as a compliment. Anyway. I was never one of those to hide my feelings about them.  I had obsessive qualities, I'm sure, but I was very rarely creepy. I reserve creepy creepy for complete strangers. I'd write them notes (my friends, not the strangers) and tack them to the bulletin boards in their room. I'd scrawl full page declarations in their yearbooks and on their MySpace pages... my written effigy(s), if you will- in case I were to be hit by a wayward bus before I saw them again. I never wanted my friends to doubt for one second that they were so important to my existence.

After every school year, we'd tell each other, "Oh, well, hope to see you around this summer." And then we'd frequent each other's houses everyday. After high school, once we ventured out of Kennewick to different places... in Washington (no one wanted to fly too far from the nest, I guess), we said, "Oh, well, have fun guys, see you winter break, or spring break maybe. If not, summer vacation, for sure." And then we'd reunite in Pullman or flit off to Gonzaga or UW or LCSC or EWU and have the best fucking Friday nights ever. Though I do recall a few rough Saturday mornings. After graduation, Jevon said to me, "See you at home, Booze." I said something to the effect of, "What if we lose touch when you go to Reno?" to which he replied, "Well I haven't gotten rid of you by now, so I don't know that I ever will."

I'm not sure if it's normal to have the (essentially) same group of friends since 7th grade. A lot of times I think we've stayed together so long because we know too many of each others secrets, and breaking in new, accepting people is time-consuming and a sometimes fruitless venture. I've tried making new friends, but unless they're an off-shoot of someone I already know, I quickly find ways to pick them apart. This is just me, though. My friends have made plenty of other friends, and this has worked out magnificently. I just sit back, relax, and my friends gather like-minded folk for my entertainment and general merriment.

Ah, I miss you guys.

I guess, mostly, I just want to say that even if I don't text you back, or if I miss your call... I love you. You're the ones that I can be away from for months and years because you're in Korea, or working in Seattle, or going to school in Louisville, or being all married and shit in Denver and Pullman, or drinking obnoxious amounts in DFW, or tanning in AZ, or spearing sea creatures in Hawaii... but when I see you again it's like nothing ever changed. (Maci would like me to give a shout out to my homies in the Tri. WHAT UP.)

I just wanted to be sincere, for once, in saying that there are a handful of people who have made me who I am, and to them I'd like to say thank you. And again, I love you.

Naturally, I made a little video, because I miss you guys and because that's what I fucking do. Make videos with pictures and songs and shit... and also because I'm in the middle of writing this chapter that I can't figure my way out of. So procrastination. It's kind of my thing.

And I bet Kaylee will be the only one who'll watch it. And she'll cry while she does, because, it's Kaylee. And we love her for that.

And, I should forewarn... It's super lame. As most slide shows are. So watch at your own risk.

i dreamed a dream...

I've come to realize that very few of us know what we want to be when we grow up now, let alone 10 years ago when we should've been becoming fantastic at it. I decided in 4th grade while traipsing across the street that I should be a writer- but, truth be told, I had other floundering ambitions along the way.

I "majored" in Psychology for almost 2 years. I use quotes because it was freshman and sophomore year- at CBC. So... less than legit. It ended up getting too science-y and technical and -ology like in the end. And really, what would I have done with a Psych degree? Been a counselor? Listened to people bitch all day? No, thank you. I hate people. And their problems.

As you can see, I'm ill-suited to be in a field that works so intimately with the human race... I'm much more an 'observe from afar' kind of girl... but regardless of my aptitude and desires, I decided to switch my major to business. Because you don't typically encounter people in the business world... The switch was mostly because I was fucking awesome at DECA in high school, and I didn't really know what else to do. I lasted about half a quarter (an eighth, if you will), because, well, I didn't like it. 

In addition to psychologist and... business woman?... through out my formative years I also wanted to be:
a lawyer (I'm really good at lying)
an anesthesiologist (they're rich and they get to do crosswords all day)
a songwriter (I'm super poetic with words and stuff, and I played the oboe)
a psychiatrist (I can spot mental illness from miles away... and I always thought it'd be cool to wield the power of prescribing anti-psychotics)
an editor (I enjoy finding, pointing out and exploiting flaws in people, be it grammatical or otherwise)
a photographer (you should see my landscapes of Pullman bars and Palouse highways. Ansel Adams, who?)
a documentary filmmaker (I'm still kind of into this one... I like documenting things. I like film. Boom. Career. Next...)

While I thought myself incredibly well-suited for all of these occupations, none of them every really got past the early stages of inception. I would tell my friends that I "finally figured out my life's passion!" and they'd agree and say things that were encouraging, all the while non-committal and sort of rude. "Law school, huh? And you thought playing fast and loose with the law and your apparent lack of moral fiber would be good for nothing..."

Even though I decided to be a writer years and years ago, I still play the what-if scenario in my head. Like, what if I were a...

Typographer. Who knew there were so many fonts?! And that people actually made them?! I don't know where I thought they came from before I discovered typography... I figured they just appeared out of thin air, like Jevon at a buffet.

Helvetica. Times New Roman. Courier. The horror that is Comic Sans and Papyrus (blogger doesn't support those fonts, for good reason)... Fonts are everywhere. They're art. They can be authoritative, or silly... they can be clean and crisp or intricate.

Yeah fucking right I'll stop.

Fonts save lives, people. And I could be the best font life saver of them all...

Private Eye, AKA full-time Facebook stalker: I am creepy as hell. I can admit this. I deleted my old Facebook with hundreds upon hundreds of people friended, and now have like, 80. Most of whom I actually do know in real life. And you know what? They are sooooooooo boring. Gone are the many status updates belittling someone's baby-daddy. No longer am I up to date with the happenings of my hot science TA and the many girls from my lab with whom he was fornicating. I can't log in and feel better about myself because everyone on my current friend list is too normal and well-adjusted. Ugh. Losers.

I was just so good at it. The stalking, that is- which is why downsizing my online presence was all for the best. For awhile there, I knew too much. The enormity of information at hand was entirely seductive- and I did not handle it well. I'm too nosy of a person to be able to have so much drivel at my fingertips. Seeing acquaintances lost its appeal because I already knew that they had an "awful day! three cavities at the dentist, parking ticket, and I come home and find out my fridge broke!"... What the hell were we going to talk about at the Sports Page, then? Future aspirations? How grim.


Pro-Whistler: I don't know, I'm just really good at it. Perfect pitch, vast range... I can even pull some didgeridoo shit and whistle while inhaling so that my tune is unblemished by the pesky need to breathe.


Chalkboard Artist: Something about scrawling on a blackboard with a chalky medium really soothes me. I started noticing this when I was commissioned to draw cookies on the board at Starbucks (I worked there, it's not like I was buying my latte and they said, "Ma'am, are you handy with liquid chalk?). Many of the patrons thought my cookies were potatoes- to which I said; we don't even serve potatoes... why the fuck would we decorate our store with them!? But, matter not. I was hooked.


Once I started working at the winery, my love for chalkboards segued into a love for bigger chalkboards that stand outside.

 It really does smell like wine in there.

Now it's kind of my thing. Chalkboard girl. That's me...

I've been called worse.


Mix-CD Maker: I'll just come right out and say it. I make a mean playlist. At least, I think I do. I sample some classics with some Top 40... I've got several gbs to work with. The only problem is, I can listen to some songs over, and over, and over, and over... without getting tired of them. Just like I can watch certain movies many a time to the point of memorization. Some people might think this kind of behavior signals Autistic tendencies, or a moderate case of OCD. I beg to differ. I just know what I like.

Anyway, when we're on a road trip, or when we need a mix at work, I'm your girl. My mixes transcend genres, occasions and time itself. Also, if I'm not controlling the music in any given situation, I turn into a real bitch. But that's not why they ask me to make mixes... they ask me because I have a knack for it. I promise :/

Heart-string Tugger: Another thing I've noticed over the years is that I'm pretty good at making people cry. Whether it's because of my laziness (my parents were usually susceptible to this one, cry me a freaking river, guys), my cruel nature, or my propensity to just hit them where it hurts, I can always draw out some semblance of emotion. I made someone cry last week at the bar. It was by unknowingly mentioning something that brought them tremendous pain, and I didn't feel particularly good about it afterward, but still. It's definitely a tangible skill.

I could put it to use by penning sappy greeting cards, or writing silly love songs. For a very reasonable one-time fee, I could jot down eulogies that will have the congregation rolling... in tears. You want a maid of honor speech that will have her mascara running down her face onto her ivory Vera Wang Chantilly lace applique a-line gown? I've got you covered.


Number Rememberer: I'm pretty good with numerical-ish things. Like dates, and phone numbers. 867-5309? Yeah, Tommy Tutone, that's Jenny. She wrote her number on the wall, and, I remembered it. And you got it. Something like that.


I don't exactly know when this came about, because I couldn't remember a single damn equation in any math class I've ever been enrolled in, and usually I can't find my keys. But do you want to know the SKU number of this one cup we sold at Starbucks that kept cutting people so we had to recall it? Of course you don't, it's useless information. Unless your cup turned itself into a bit of a shiv... in which case you should probably know it was 11003503. Check your tumblers. Get your refund.

Time-waster: I'm best at this. I'm actually better at wasting time than anything else. That's why I know so many random things- because I learn them when I should be doing something else. Like sleeping. Or hanging out with people. Or writing... which brings me to this:


Through-out all my 'discovering my life's passions' and figuring out the things I could have been great at (stalking, whistling, etc.), I always come back to being a writer. And not one of those "oh I just write for me, I love it and I don't care if I ever make a dime..." kind of writers, either. I would like to make a living from it. A modest one is fine. Minimum wage, I don't care. I'd even settle for being rather poor. I just want to write.

Knowing what you want to do, and what you were meant to do, and what you will do, is kind of a relief. It's the only thing 'relieving' about wanting to be a writer, to be honest.

I can pretty much be sure that I will never have a steady paycheck from writing. If I ever do publish a book or sell a script, there will be a number of people that think it's complete shit. Also, I know that my own work will never be good enough. It will never be edited well enough, or brilliant or funny enough, or as sincere as I meant it to be. I'll re-read it years after 'finishing' it and be disgusted with the errors glaring at me from the page.

There might be a day when I run out of things to say, and while that's frightening now, I can only imagine how devastating it will be the day it happens.

But, I know my calling. Maybe I'm no good at it- but I love it enough that I will spend every day trying to get better. Maybe it will never happen for me- but I'm delusional enough to think it will.

And, if all else fails, I can always fall back on one of my aforementioned skills. How cool would it be if I were a professional chalkboard typographer who stalks people via social networking sites as I whistle a sad, sad song I wrote and burned to a mix CD whose SKU is 12983475?!

It'd be really cool, obviously.

coo coo chee

This post was originally entitled "The Devil Jevon went down to Georgia Texas." But blogger doesn't let you use strike through text in titles, so, here I sit.

Jevon's name has been dropped more in this blog than any other. I mention him almost as much as I mention myself- divided by 17.

Some of you probably know Jevon... and for those of you who do, you may or may not know that he turned 25 last week. Jevon (or Jevin, as I like to call him) is a curious fellow. We first met outside Ridge View Elementary, where he sprayed me with water- because that's what you do when you meet someone, I guess.

The water spraying incident was in fifth grade, though Jevin and I didn't become 'friends' until about a year after that, toward the end of sixth grade. As I remember it (and I could be slightly deluded), I was cool, and Jevin was not, and he wanted to usurp my popularity and infest his way into my group of friends. He did this within about four days. Gone were the JCP sweater vests he was so fond of, replaced by button-ups, ECKO, and this one white shirt with blue and green lettering... I think it was made by a rapper of some sort... I'm blanking on the name now.

 Found the shirt! Enyce. Is that a rapper?

Jevin, in middle school, high school and beyond- was a very likable guy. He was nice to everyone (at least to their faces...) and was fairly jovial (that means happy, J) at any given time. He had lots of friends and used this to his full advantage. One time at the fair, Jevin decided that we should play a game. We would stand together in front of the ride area and count how many people said, "Hi!" to us. We could not say 'hi' first, as to not accost friendly-attention-starved strangers who'd say 'hi' to anyone. It had to be actual people who knew us, who liked us enough to acknowledge our existence. And, truth be told, he won like, 45-7. And those 7 that said 'hi' to me? Yeah, they pretty much just used their hellos as a way to talk to Jevon. "Hey Liz... how's your summer go- oh, what up Jevon? How ya doin' man?"

It was so depressing.

While Jevin was sometimes a very sweet boy, he was also quite intelligent (aka: manipulative). He'd come over to my house weekly to burn himself some new tunes. The music Jevin listened to... oh, God. It was awful, for the most part, and I'm sure he listens to the same stuff now. He'd name the CD's 'Liz 1', 'Liz 2', and if I do recall I'm pretty sure 'Liz 3' was burned to rave reviews. He named them this because he made them at my house, right? Wrong.

Once, Bobby (his dad) decided to move the 'Stang, and when he started it the speakers blasted with derogatory shouting, swearing, and malice all laid nicely over a hip hop beat. He ejected the CD. "JEVON! YOU DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS MUSIC LIZ MAKES FOR YOU ANYMORE!"

This wasn't the only time I unknowingly took the fall for him. One time when I drove his drunk ass home (from my house, he literally couldn't walk the 1/4 mile), he and Paul were throwing up in the front yard. The next morning, when Suz asked what the noise was, J told her I had food poisoning, and for some reason wandered over to their house to express it...

And, I'm sure he's thrown me under the bus many other times, I've probably just blocked them out- or am still unaware. 

Tackling me.

If everyone has a 'thing', like, being the drunk girl, or being that guy, Jevin's 'thing' would be giving people nicknames, like: Booze (Me, though he didn't create this one he did help perpetuate it), Nana (me)**, Mary Boolig (me :( ), Beuze (me, again.), Big Ash (Ashley), Diamond (Ashley), Steak (Ashley- hahaahah), Big Head (Kaylee), Rhonda (Kaylee), McDonalds (Kaylee), Crazette (Kaylee- and I still think this one is super stupid), Cow (Kaylee's brother, who, actually, is quite thin...) Rosemary (Bonnie... something about Shallow Hal), Boner (Bonnie :( ), Saltine (John- because he was a "skinny, white cracker"), NH/Nerd Herd (John), Nogger (Paul- because he had a big head and Big Head was taken), Maci (Megan), Neibs (Megan), Big Red (Erica), Gay (Erica), Chester (Lawrence- rhymes with molester...), Jurass (Justin), Scaaaatt (Scott), My Man (Omar), The Oven (Kyle), Boot (Caitlin), Dad (Shaun), and while I can think of many more, they're for the most part derogatory and not fit for this forum.

*bolded entries are nicknames with such lasting qualities that many people use them in lieu of the person's given name.

**And can I say one thing about this 'Nana' business? One day, I was driving across the Blue Bridge when I got a text from Jevon. It read, "can I call you nana?" and I immediately replied, "no."  Cut to 20 minutes later, when I was inundated with 30 texts from various friends that read, "hi, nana.", and a few that said, "why did Jevon text me and ask me to text you, 'hi, nana'?" I still don't know how, or why that name caught on...

Jevin was Freshman Prince (I maintain that the only reason he won is because he had the band vote.. yeah, he played the saxophone) and during lunch he'd hit us with his backpack and say, "Split for the Prince!" Years later, he was up for the title of Senior Prom King... but he lost. And I was partnered with him, so, you could say I hold a bit of a grudge. We lost, mostly, I think, because he'd forgone the band vote. Also, I don't remember him hitting us with his backpack as much that time around.

In addition to being smart, and nice, Jevin was quite ambitious. For as long as he could remember, he wanted a Ford Mustang. So he devised a way to get one... oh, did you think that I was going to tell you a story of how he saved money from his after-school job for a down payment? No. Jevon's discretionary income went exclusively to Jordan shorts and E-C-K.

His plan to get a Mustang was as follows: he'd drive down Kellogg (or was it Edison?), and as he neared 10th, he'd put on his blinker. But he wouldn't turn on 10th, he'd turn into a driveway right before it- slamming on his brakes to do so, thereby surprising the car behind him. Ideally, the driver wouldn't be able to react fast enough, and when their car impacted his, the 'Rolla would be left in such disrepair that it would be deemed, 'totaled', and Jevin... poor, sweet, victim-of-a-careless-driver, Jevin, would get a new car.

He was a very enterprising young fellow, methinks.

 He was pushing ABA out of the frame, all the while looking quite innocent.

I drove up to Pullman with Jevin the week before his freshman year, to help him unpack some random stuff that wouldn't fit in his car. Probably a lava lamp or two from Spencer's. As we walked down the hall, we could hear (and feel) the sounds of what I can only assume was the 'Liz 5' cd. "I think my neighbors might be kind of hood..." he said. A little while later after he'd wandered the hall, he joined me in his and Mark's dorm room, looking a bit worried. "So, everyone's either a thug or a gamer..." (I wonder who he could have been referring to, Justin and Seany...)

Through out college, J became a more intense version of the boy I knew back home. Instead of lying to his parents about CD's I made, he lied to his friends about my supposed addiction to methamphetamines and my many abortions (still, I maintain... I've never done meth, and I've never aborted anything other than a computer program gone awry). He also told everyone that Big Ash ate an entire fridge once, so I'm glad I wasn't alone in my struggles to overcome the rumors he spun.

 Throwing his pants down. Just because.

It was senior year of college that he started telling people I was abusive. Our friends would get drunken, 2AM texts about how I pushed him, or hit him, or bit him. I did none of these things. Though, once I did push him down the hill behind Cougar Crest, and had he not been so spry (he's got rhythm, I'll be the first to admit...) he may have perished in the tumble.

There are a whole host of nice things that Jevon's done... like the sign he made to ask me to Homecoming, or the time he drove up to Pullman to help me move, or... well, maybe there are two nice things.

The fact is, Jevon has, for better or worse, been a part of my life for many years now. I've considered him a friend for longer than I haven't (does that make sense?), and I'm not really sure how things would be had I never met him. More peaceful, certainly. I wouldn't be so neurotic, for fear of someone outside my room with a chainsaw, or hiding in my bed dressed like a clown, or pretending to be me on AIM and telling everyone all my secrets...

But, I wouldn't be the same. That's an undeniable fact.

So, Jevin. I do love you, even though I mostly pretend otherwise. Happy (late) Birthday. Please don't call me. And quit sending me lewd photos.

hi, bob.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I went to Hawaii with my grandparents and other extended family for Thanksgiving. It was my first major holiday away from my parents, and though it was kind of scary to be off without them, it was Hawaii... so I pushed through the pain. Grandpa and I took a drive along the Maui coastline one afternoon, stopping at a scenic vista for a photo op. My grandfather was a newspaper reporter and photographer almost his entire adult life, and evidently he was well-versed in 'drive by shootings'. After a few clicks of the Canon, he got out of the rented convertible.

"What are you doing?" I called after him as he took off down the road. He didn't answer me, though it didn't take me long to notice the boy with a surfboard he seemed to be chasing after. A boy, who very well could have been my age... AKA a boy who Grandpa was not allowed to humiliate me in front of.

"Excuse me, young man?" Grandpa waved at him, beckoning him forward. "Yes, you. Come here."

The boy obliged, probably because he was confused, and also because he was maybe a little scared... My grandpa was not a slight man, by any means. He was 6'6", with an intimidating gaze and a gruff voice.

"May we borrow your surfboard for a moment?" Grandpa asked, pointing to the yellow, white and blue board under his arm.

"Huh?"

"Your surfboard," Grandpa grabbed at it, "may we borrow it? Just for a second."

The boy shrugged, handing it over. I watched, in horror- mind you, as Grandpa ambled back toward the car. He propped the board in the backseat, took a few steps back, and said to me, "Smile, Liz. This will make it look like you're a real surfer." He snapped a few photos, trying to get me to smile the best I could, even though I was mortified long after the board was returned. I was still red-faced hours later, reliving the moment at the Thanksgiving luau.

I was 15, and that's what 15 year olds do- they get embarrassed when any member of their family makes a noise, or move, or look- about anything, ever.

This Grandpa I'm speaking of is the very same who told me his appendectomy scar was a bayonet wound from the Revolutionary War. He's the same grandpa who was present for literally every other moment of my life. Who actually thought that I'd be a writer someday- he wondered if I maybe took after him, a little bit. He's the Grandpa who, when allowed to buy me a birthday present (rather than just sign the card Grandma picked out), bought me Tonka trucks. At age 6, I did not like Tonka trucks. I liked Barbies, and tea sets. I had several tea sets... and I had lots of guests so I could have used another... But he bought me Tonka trucks, and I played with them anyway, because he was the one who gave them to me.

Honestly, I would not be who I am today without my grandpa. I would not have gone to the college I went to, I would not drive the car I drive, and I would not have the job I have. I probably wouldn't have the friends I have, either, because I have a sneaking suspicion that half of them used me for access to his pool through most of our formative years.

Grandpa picked me up from school when I was sick, took me to plays and parades and the fair, and had I ever played any sports or done anything like that I'm sure he would have been a fixture in the stands...

My grandparents were my most frequent babysitters, and lived a few blocks away from me for a lot of my life. They bunked with my parents and I for a few months when they were building their new house, and I've spent several Christmas Eves sleeping beneath their tree- including last year. We had mimosas and tequila coffee all before the presents were opened. I was in Heaven.

All my life I have relied consistently and heavily upon my grandparents. Grandpa was a writer for the Herald and as influential as he was in our community- he was more so in our family. He was loud, opinionated, unfailingly sweet and incredibly generous. There are many things in my life... so many that I can't even really count that high... that I have because of him.

On that note, I suppose, I should mention that my grandpa passed away on Wednesday.

It was not expected. He didn't have cancer or heart problems, but he did have trouble with blood clots, so much so that on Wednesday he could no longer hang on.

Oh, God. It's so weird when someone close to you dies. You probably know this already, people go through this sort of thing every day. Every second, of every day. But I've never dealt with this before. My family is fairly small and fairly healthy and I have nothing to compare this to... this feeling.

One minute I was on my way to Coeur d'Alene on a mini-vacation of sorts, and the next I was being shoved into the quiet room; this suffocating little space within Kennewick General Hospital, with chairs lining the walls and multiple boxes of Kleenex strewn about.

Maybe these are the little pieces of life that create grown-ups- as if little bits of childhood are falling away. And here I am, trying again to understand the fact that he was an integral part of my life since it started- that I have never known the world without him in it, and now I have to. 

There's this one short story that I read in one of my creative writing classes, written by Walter Kirn. It's about a father-son relationship and that certain loss of innocence that occurs when a child finally sees their parents for what they are: human. We do this a lot, with friends, relatives, significant others... even celebrities and politicians. We put them on a pedestal and we know that they will never do anything wrong- that they'll never make a mistake... they couldn't. Until they do. And then, when that misstep occurs, when they show that frailty of humanity, the illusion is ruined. And it's devastating.

I don't think I ever had this realization with my grandpa. Sure, he broke more things than he fixed, had the patience of an ADHD-addled 8 year old, and sometimes spoke without actually thinking of what he was saying... but he was still kind of perfect. He was caring, and giving, and always held out a hand if ever someone needed help up.

But what Walter Kirn was talking about is entirely real, and even though my grandpa never lost his superhuman luster in my eyes, when I see blatant displays of emotion I can understand the feeling. It's like the facade is cracking, and beneath my mom, or dad, or grandma, there's a person. A person who isn't alive just to be related to me. A person who had a life before I existed, whose day continues even if I'm not a part of it... I realize this is stupid, but, even now it's difficult for me to wrap my head around.

In that moment in the hospital, sitting with what was left of my family- when we understood that this man who embodied the very blood that was within all our veins was gone- I felt a certain kind of disconnect. It wasn't my mom, or my uncle, or my cousin sitting there. During that small segment of time they were just very familiar people who were completely crushed. And I couldn't handle seeing them like that, so I left.

Driving through town, I really wanted to slam into people's cars. Why weren't they getting out of my way? Didn't they know? Couldn't they tell what had just happened? Why was everyone still carrying on as if nothing was wrong? I realize this kind of thinking is futile and idiotic, but it's where my head was at. My world had stopped- so why hadn't everyone else's?

Grandparents die. I understand that. They're typically a lot older than other members of a family, and as such, they are usually the first to go. My grandpa was 79, that's a decent age. Blood clots are serious- I know all of these things.

But, this knowledge doesn't make it any easier. It still fucking sucks. And for a few days I didn't really know what to do with myself and I still don't know how to act, or what to say. I feel silly, because I know people die everyday... but this is the first time someone's passing has invaded my every thought. He was my grandpa, you know? He mattered to me. He mattered to my family, and maybe he was just some old guy wandering the aisles of Fred Meyer to most, but in my life he played a really important part.

And, again, I know it's stupid and obvious, but being an adult is hard. And if this is what it entails, I'm not so sure I want to be one anymore. Work, bills, and now this shit? Seriously, no thanks.

Wow. This is such a gloomy blog entry, I'm sorry. I'll just leave you with this- the thing that gives me peace: My grandpa was loved, and he loved. And he was passionate about things, and he did what he wanted and followed through with what he promised- and he was a good man. The last time I saw him, 8 days ago today, I told him I loved him- and I meant it.

I will miss you forever, Grandpa, I promise- I have never been so sure of anything I've ever said.

And I will do everything in my power to make sure that I'm the person you always thought I was.

I love you, so, so much. And I want you to know that we will be okay, someday. Different, but okay.

And we'll take care of Grandma.

I love you.

they say i'm crazy but i have a good time

I write a lot. Not just on here, you know. I listen fairly well (when I want to), and more often than not people say funny things without knowing it- so I feel it's my duty to write their words down. Like the time I overheard a girl on her phone, shouting, "I DO NOT HAVE AIDS!" To her, this situation was probably not humorous. But it was to me. Very much so.

Junior year while walking about campus (in front of Avery by the old Bookie, if you must know) I ended up behind a trio of sorority-ites. They were wearing Juicy fits and North Face vests and Uggs... and their hair looked like it had been styled the night before- though after downing an ungodly number of vodka crans and taking part in a sexual hook up that was probably consensual- it (the hair) looked greasy and matted and really pretty...

The girls chatted with each other, perhaps about their thoughts on the Nobel Peace Prize candidates or the latest ΠΚΑ shenanigans, when they saw someone walking toward them. Someone, I assumed, they knew. And liked.

"Ashley! Oh my God where'd you run off to last night!" The girls squealed, giggling with 'Ashley' for a few seconds before continuing on to class. Ashley seemed nice in a, she-looks-exactly-like-them-so-they-must-be-besties, kind of way.

As Ashley hurried out of earshot, one of the girls cackled. "Ohmigawd... I hate her."

"I know," another one replied, "and she looks like she's fucking retarded or something. That face. It's just like, blegh."

My class was in Bryan, so I had to leave my new friends just when I was starting to like them. I hauled my ass up like 27 steps to my Black Popular Culture class (honestly), sat down in the windowless clock tower room, and wrote exactly what I heard. And what they were wearing. Why?? Because these girls would make such good stereotypical college girl characters. And they make really great awful human beings, too.

Mostly I write about things and people that I've created in my mind, and while that sounds vaguely schizophrenic, it's what 'writers' do. And I'm a 'writer'. I tell myself that everyday- I stammer it internally so that maybe one day I'll believe it and lose the quotation marks... so that one day when I tell people about my chosen profession they won't just look at me, staring uncomfortably as if I'd just asked them to star in my latest porn flick.

I was at my parents house last week doing laundry, because it's free there and they have a pool. And, also, sometimes I steal things like food, furniture and jewelry. Anyway, on this particular occasion while I was lounging on the deck, my book got wet. This was really shocking, as even though I was near a body of water, I did not feel myself in danger of being dampened. I guess I was wrong. I tried to rally and overcome, but it became impossible to concentrate because I couldn't read without thinking every other second, "this would be sooo much more entertaining if I could see the words properly..."

It was then that I decided it was probably a good time to do that 'writing' thing I'm so fond of. I nipped down to the basement, where my parents locked me and my things for several years, and dug out some old notebooks.

After a few hours of scribbling in the sun, a gust of wind fluttered the pages, landing me on a free-write completed many a year ago.

For those of you who had normal classes, I will explain the purpose of a free-write. Free-writes are wastes of time that English professor's lean on when they're too high to teach, or for when they're bored. Or both. You sit at your desk, pen to the paper, and write anything and everything that you're thinking. Just as it comes to you. And if you don't know what to write, you write, "I don't know what to write... I don't know what to write... I don't know what to write..." until you do.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is what I 'wrote':

Places that scare me -


Circus
Fair
Principal's office
Large crowds
Airplanes
Crowded buses
Unfamiliar inhabited places


The circus is a frightening place. There are animals and outfits, make-up and beards, people who are not normal but instead are forced to be 'freaks'. Most of all there are clowns- big and small, each as frightening as the last. Elephants strapped and tied, whipped and saddled.


But those clowns. Fuck. What are they hiding? What do they want? Why must someone disguise themselves in ill-fitting, flamboyantly colored pant suits? Why all the make-up? And that HAIR!?! Why do they exist? They have no point.


It smells like a farm/fair/gym. Sweaty people watching parades of livestock, eating their corn dogs & breathing and sweating... in a tent.


I hate Barnum, Bailey, all 3 of the Ringling brothers, though if I saw them on the street I wouldn't know them from Adam... Is that a saying? Would I also not be able to tell Adam? Maybe if he was carrying his rib around, calling it Eve.


My leg is caught in my backpack, and I can't get it loose w/out stopping my writing. And now I'm plagued by the inability to think of anything else while my leg is practically suffocating!! I must try to break free.............


Eureka!


My hand hurts like a bitch. Now where did that saying come from? Are women (or female dogs) apt to cause pain? Oh Eve. I hope the apple was worth it.



I imagine this is how Samuel Clemens' notebooks read. He too was mulling around the horrors of Bozo and John Wayne Gacy, when all of a sudden he came up with Huck. And Tom. And his delightful rants centered around Mormons.

Flipping through the rest of the notebook, I found pages (upon pages) of notes from poetry class. The only reason I enrolled was because it was a requirement for my major. It was almost as exciting as say... a slow death. Or, hepatitis.

One of my best received poems was about The Little Mermaid and Barack Obama. Both of them. Together. He says yes we can, she just wanted to be a part of his world... and something else about whozits and whatzits galore... It seems bizarre now, I guess. I'd type out the whole thing for you, but to be honest it really is quite weird. I also once wrote a poem about Wiley Night, but that was for a different class. You see, this is why English majors are freaks! They make us practically vomit verbiage at all times, no matter how ridiculous... and we let them... because we (secretly) like it.

I'm a stand-back-in-the-crowd-and-watch-people-creepily kind of gal. I have hours of footage from high school stockpiled at my parents house. I tried to watch some a few weeks ago but the camera work gave me motion sickness. Elia Kazan I am not, evidently. Oh, and before my level of creep raises to 'uber' in your eyes, my friends knew they were being taped. Except for this one time Jevon and John set up the camcorder in the bathroom where people were changing into swimsuits... (Sorry ABA.)

When I meet someone, I immediately dissect their personality and actions and posture- wondering if they'd make a good 'fictional' character. When something weird happens to me, I make note of it... just in case.

I didn't turn 16 until the last month of my sophomore year of high school, and even then I wasn't allowed to drive because I was a fucking idiot. My friends usually took pity on me, driving me to and fro, making sure I got to school on time and seeing to it that I wasted just as many hours at the mall as they did. I usually hitched a ride to lunch with them as well, but some days... I didn't.

On this particular occasion, maybe I was late getting out of class. Maybe I didn't want to go to lunch. Or maybe... probably... someone forgot me, or didn't have room in their car... or just didn't want me to go. (You know, I doubt that was the case, because I was like a ray of freaking sunshine back in 10th grade when I was a total loser and had a suffocating fear of being my lame, lame self...)

So, I found myself in the cafeteria with Maci and Laura. We stood in line at the sandwich bar, watching with great interest as our lunch was fashioned before our eyes. Mine was on some delicious Kamiakin-cafeteria-sub bread (seriously it was good), with turkey, lettuce, black olives and cheese. I know... I was pretty bold back then, what with the olives.

We sat by ourselves, most likely pretending to be deep in conversation so we didn't have to socialize with the randos taking up the surrounding area. But then, somewhere in the midst of lunch, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

When this happened, I immediately assumed it was the love of my life finally coming to his senses. I figured he realized that even though he's a senior and like, captain of the football team and President of the school, and even though our only real contact were times he drove me home because he was sort of dating my best friend, and even though our lone moments of physicality were when he would pat me on the head saying, "aw, Liz..."----- that this was his come-to-Jesus moment. And right there in the middle of KaHS, he'd declare his love for me. I figured it was gonna be this kind of serendipitous situación... or that the hand on my shoulder was connected to someone I really fucking disliked- who may or may not also be declaring their love for me. Natch.

Before I could turn to see who was gripping my shoulder with such force (it had to be the love of my life... right?)... two things happened. First, the person gripping my shoulder pulled back, leaning across me. Then, the person (a he, I realized at this point) reached INSIDE MY SANDWICH, pulled out the two slices of cheese, let out a shriek, and ran away.

I stared at my cheese-less sub, looking up at Laura and Maci's expressions, their horror mirrored by my own. You know, they probably weren't horrified. Dumbfounded, maybe. But they weren't the ones whose lunch was just violated. No, my friends, I had to carry that burden all on my own.

Seconds after the sandwich molestation, a woman was at my side. "I'm so sorry!" she said, not actually laughing at this point but seeming like when she told her husband and kids that night, she'd be in hysterics... "Tommy's autistic... and sometimes he just can't control himself around cheese!"

I think I nodded or something, completely disgusted. I never ate a sandwich in that cafeteria again, and I really love sandwiches, so, it was a huge blow. It's not that he stole my cheese- he stole my peace of mind.

So I wrote about him. The moment is forever immortalized in a notebook, and now, in the ether.

One day, if you're reading a book or watching a movie or something... and an autistic cheese bandit steals the scene... you'll know I was the one behind it. Either that or someone lifted it from my blog. I have a feeling Aaron Sorkin stalks my every word, so, we'll see.

Oh, and if you see anyone in your likeness, who's saying the things you've said, have no fear. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. :)

mathi, can you hear me?

Sixteen years ago I transferred to Ridge View Elementary, having spent kindergarten through second grade at a school called Lincoln. Looking back, I'm not entirely sure why this happened as my family didn't actually move into the Ridge View boundaries until the last month of fifth grade... I was an illegal alien, living in the squalor of Benton City, using my grandparents address in order to obtain a better education. And by a better education I guess I mean surrounded by fewer poor people.

On my first day of school, my mom escorted me to class. I think she made a habit of this because a.) I am an only child and she has nothing else to live for, and b.) I probably would have cried without her there. I wasn't much of an independent spirit back then...

We stood in line outside Mrs. Stewart's room, squinting in the glaring 9 AM sun. I squinted a lot in my youth, mostly because I thought sunglasses were for bitches. I was wearing some sort of denim dress ensemble, and my hair had recently been BUTCHERED by the very woman who stood by my side, assuring me I'd be okay at my new school- even though I had no friends whatsoever. I knew she was wrong, though. How could I make friends with terrible hair?!?

It was then that I saw her. About 4'9", blonde hair with bangs I would have killed for... wearing Umbro shorts. You know, those one soccer shorts with the shiny squares? I didn't play soccer, but I always wanted a pair of those shorts... because they were sporty and popular, two things I desperately wanted to be.

Maci, or Megan, back in those days, was way too cool for me. In truth I wanted to be her friend, but I masqueraded this desire rather well by acting outwardly hateful. I started a club (The Rainbow Star Club), and didn't invite her to join. I made her friend, Jennifer, cry. *I'm still not really sure how this transpired, and she ended up changing schools so I never really got to apologize. I'm also about 64% sure I am not the reason for the transfer... And even though I was horrible... it's not like she was inviting me to sleepovers, or wanting to be besties... or being kind, at all.

It seems she didn't like me, either. Says I was 'bossy'. Pshaw.

She sucked up to the teacher, something that I was VERY good at and took VERY seriously. I'm sure she did this to spite me. I caught her (along with John), washing ink residue off stamps one recess. I furiously beat on the window, stuck outside in the sunshine, wanting to be inside kissing ass... They laughed at me from the comfort of Mrs. Stewart's good graces.

Maci hated me so much, in fact, she tried to sabotage the rest of my tenure at Ridge View.

During the last week of school, we were instructed to request which teacher we preferred for the next year. For some reason, at this point in time, Maci and I were desk-mates. "Who do you want to be your teacher?" I asked.

"Mr. Burr. My brother had him, and he is SO mean," she sneered. I don't know if she actually sneered, but, let's just go with it. "I don't even want to be in that class, my parents are making me. I want to be in Mrs. Martin's. She makes snow cones every week."

"Oh..." I said, nodding. I did like snow cones... "He's really mean, though?"

"Yeah. Who are you requesting?"

I thought for a moment. A year full of snow cones was tempting. "Mr. Burr," I said smugly. Her face fell. I was going to make her life hell if it was the last thing I did.

By 4th grade, Maci and I had become friends. This was less because we had a shared liking for each other and more because we didn't know any of the other girls in class. And what brings people together better than mutual hatred? Nothing, that's what. We sat by each other during specials, hung out at recess, and soon we were eating lunch at each others desks, having sleepovers every weekend and being cruel to others whenever the chance arose.

We bonded over the Spice Girls, even though she always hogged Baby Spice. I was forced to make up my own 'Spice', because Caitlin was Posh, Nikki was Sporty, Bonnie was the other Baby (even though we all know there's only one!)... I didn't want to be Scary, and we all know how much I loathe Gingers. So I was relegated to something reminiscent of Anonymous Spice. Lame. We had an intense love for Hanson, and while our obsession was not quite to Bieber-fever levels, we cut up our fair share of Tiger Beats. She liked Zac, I liked Taylor- and because of them and their stylish ways we decided it would be cool to wear like, 14 necklaces. Stacked on top of one another. Tangling together so ferociously that we had to cut them off... Maci and I also collected Beanie Babies, and by collected I mean we hoarded them. Hundreds of them. We stood outside Hallmark and waited for them. We played with them at recess, we brought them to sleepovers and we built homes for them in extra desks posted around Mr. Burr's classroom... What a fucking waste of money.

And, also, I think Maci liked the fact that I was an only child and had pools and tent trailers at my disposal. In fifth grade I moved onto her street, and we were inseparable. Her family took me to Sun River, and I only cried hysterically because of homesickness for like, the first four nights. We rode bikes, and rollerbladed, scootered, and hopped the fence to Ridge View to play on the twirly bars. She even went and got my mom when my shorts got caught on the chain link and I was stuck, dangling four feet off the ground...

We made 'the goop of summer' which was a mixture of lotions, spices, grass, dirt, and more... We wrote with it on the street in front of my house, and the message "GOOP OF SUMMER" was stained on the asphalt for about four months. My mother was less than thrilled.

She introduced me to Jevon (something I'll never forgive her for), and together we mourned the loss of the tree farm behind her house. We always had plans to build a totally awesome fort, but they cut the farm down in favor of old people houses before we had the chance.

We'd walk to and from middle school every day and though it was only a mile, the way we bitched about it you'd think our parents were making us jog to Spokane and back. Sometimes we'd play our instruments on the way home, something I'm sure the neighbors appreciated greatly.

Freshman year of high school, we had the humbling experience of riding the school bus and being complete losers. Maci was an experienced rider, having been on the route in kindergarten. She tells a story of this one time when the bus driver forgot to let her off. She stared silently out the window, bangs taking up half her head, her mother running frantically after her. Poor little Deep Throat... Oh, that was her nickname when she was a small child. Evidently young Maci was a bit of a baritone.

Once we got our licenses we spent the majority of our time driving around aimlessly, usually ending up at the mall, AKA Mecca for all 'cool' teens. We weren't cool, but we hung around the food court enough that we may have, kind of convinced some people that we were. There were six of us girls, and this posed a problem since all of our cars only comfortably sat five. Naturally, this meant someone had to be in the trunk. On one particular occasion, Maci was delegated to the trunkal region. We stopped at the Bank of America in the mall parking lot, needing to use the ATM, when we noticed a car full of boys at the nearest stop light. These weren't just any boys- they were cute, foreign ones that went to our school, one of whom Maci was harboring an all-consuming, fanatical love for.

"Megan, we're here!" Bonnie yelled, unlatching the trunk. Maci came busting out, hands in the air- scaring the shit out of the boys looking our way. One actually screamed. And then they laughed at us. Or should I say, her... because I wasn't really doing anything other than getting money with my parent's debit. Like any 16 year old girl would have been, Maci was mortified. And like any 24 year old girl, I find it quite funny, now. She slinked back, lying down on the floor of the trunk. It was a '93 Corolla, and not the roomiest of hideouts, but she stayed there until we coaxed her out in the Barnes and Noble parking lot.

Maci is an interesting girl. Her nose flares when she laughs. She spends countless hours picking at her hair. She doesn't really listen when you're talking to her, and she likes to interrupt anyone at anytime. She cries when she sits in a chair and it breaks, but this is mostly because she had a terrible day and it was snowing and Jevon ruined everything (as he always does).

Oh, and some of you might be wondering why we call her Maci. It's simple really, as Maci is her dogs name, and Maci (the girl) has an unnatural obsession with Maci (the dog). With dogs in general. She almost never interrupts them.

My girl Maci was my roommate in college, and is my roommate now. It's fun because sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and digs for diamonds. Or rearranges her entire room. Or searches her bed for spiders. She's usually not aware of this, but Scott keeps me up-to-date with her latest midnight shenanigans, that is when he's not 'accidentally' sleeping in my room.

Maci waters my plants. I mention this because I didn't actually know she did this until very recently. I thought I had a magical fern that was desert-bred and needed water only but once a biennium. Now I know the truth... she's been watering it in secret since the day I brought it home. Maci's always taking care of things when I'm too manic to help myself. She has extra keys for when I lose mine. She knows the non-emergency number and she calls it when people try to break in through my bedroom window and murder me... though I guess I'm a little offended she considered this a 'non-emergency'...

It is not Maci's birthday today. Maci shares her birthday with Hitler and celebrated it a little more than a month ago. She didn't celebrate for Hitler, mind you, just herself. In fact, today is nothing special in the realm of Maci's world... But I wanted to write about her, none-the-less. Maci the girl is moving on Monday, to a land far, far away... and I am devastated. Who will I drink with every night? Who will hum along to the Sex and the City theme song with me? Who will buy garbage bags, because I sure as hell don't know where they're located in the myriad of aisles in Target.

I'll miss you Maci the girl. Neibs. Meegs. Moe Soup. Mace of Base. Mathhiiiii.

Grrbye, Mathi. You'll do wonderfully, and before you know it you'll be my roomie once again! I love you, and I'll miss you. And I'll make sure to remember to lock the doors. And I won't leave lights on when I'm not in the apt. And I really hope I don't get murdered before you get back...

Lurve ganats and hoors.

"Well that was a stupid choice." - Maci